


hear my song, it will help us get through 'til tomorrow

by EveningStarcatcher



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Plays Piano, M/M, Music, Sad and Happy, aziraphale plays cello
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningStarcatcher/pseuds/EveningStarcatcher
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley play music to process some feelings
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: An Eventful Surprise





	hear my song, it will help us get through 'til tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/gifts).



> A gift for bisasterdi for being an amazing leader and friend to all of us on the GO Events discord server!
> 
> title from Hear My Song from Songs for a New World by Jason Robert Brown  
> based on the prompt: One hobby that a character(s) has indulged in over the last 6000 yrs.

A soft click echoes in the empty bookshop. A slight creak of a hinge. The soft rustle of fabric being moved aside. 

Lift. Twist. Pull. Twist again. 

A comforting ritual.

Handle with care.

Dive back in. A line, a circle, a square.

A circle placed on the floor, just the right distance away. A nesting place.

A square held in one hand. A line pulled across it, cradled gently but firmly between sure fingers. 

Set it aside. Prepare. _Breathe_.

Listen.

The bow moves across the strings with intent, starting low, soft, hesitant, and growing, gaining confidence, letting the movements and emotions flow.

Eyelids fall shut.

The vibrations of the lowest notes are warm and comforting, like an old blanket, full of comfort and memories. The high notes float and fill the room with love and longing and joy. The bow dances across the strings, fingers moving deftly along the neck, pressing and pushing and rocking along the musical strands. 

Tears begin to flow, falling down soft cheeks and onto the polished wood that is glowing softly in the low light. 

Memories flood his senses. A wall, a restaurant, a theatre, a church, a park, a bookshop.

_We’re not friends. Do you know what trouble I’d be in if they knew I’d been fraternizing? You go too fast for me._

He plays and he cries, pouring grief into every note. 

_Oh, well let me tempt you. What if I buy you lunch? That was very kind of you._

He plays and he smiles, reminded of all the hope and joy he’s seen in his long life. He plays and he hopes. 

He hopes for love. He hopes for peace. He hopes for things he can’t say. But he can play. 

And he does.

\-----------------------

It is dim, smoky. The quiet hum of conversations drifts around the room. The smell of cigarettes mixed with cologne and whiskey. Breathe it in. A soft smile settles over sharp features.

A drink sits on a napkin and attention turns once more to the page scattered with circles and lines. It is unnecessary, but part of the look.

Black on black, with just a splash of white, a hint of silver, a shock of red.

He reaches out, resting his long fingers against the smooth surface. He sighs into it and lets his eyelids fall closed.

Familiar. Safe. Sturdy.

He presses and the chord rings out clear and serene. An arpeggio, a lyrical line, a sudden accent, a key change, and suddenly fingers are flying. They hit the keys with force. A chromatic scale, descending, falling, out of rhythm, erratic, faster and faster, until he hits the bottom with a loud cluster of notes that tears at his heart.

He pulls his hands away, wipes at his damp face, releases a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

When he reaches for the keys once more, it is soft and romantic. Memories of a garden, of oysters, a play, precious books. A shift to minor when he remembers a fight, a thermos, empty years. 

He curls in on himself, hunching over the keys, breathing in tempo, losing himself to the music.

He plays a song of hope that he shouldn’t have. A song of joy that he doesn’t deserve. A song of love that he shouldn’t feel. 

He plays and he feels. Despite everything, he feels it all.


End file.
